The Fall of the Andronici
by Rael Imperial Aerosol Kid
Summary: Titus from Chiron's perspective. Goes into things that the playmovie does not. Incestual overtones.
1. Unspeakable

Unspeakable  
  
"Chiron!" My mother's harsh words penetrated the aura of calm that had surrounded me. Her sharp gray eyes bored into mine, and I knew she was displeased. "Yes, Gracious Tamora?" I replied, raising one of my eyebrows in question of her unspoken accusation. "Chiron, beloved son, we must flee. Even now, as we speak, Roman soldiers are storming our lovely city of Scythia!" My head swam. Upon the latest morn we had been told that all was well, that the Romans were being pushed back towards their own borders. "Fetch thy brother, Chiron, and let us be off! We shall await thee at the city's most disguised gate." It was then that she left me, still garbed in her golden battle armor, to flee the city that she ruled. Tamora, Queen of Goths, unable to push back the barbaric invaders that had sought so long for our lands. But I had been given an order, one I was not keen to take lightly. Demetrius, I knew, would be in his room, the music of our world filling his empty head and drowning out the sounds of the invasion that were beginning to penetrate our beloved palace. I stormed through his door, took the fool 'round the middle and dragged him upright. "Pray thee, Demetrius, put on some clothing and make ready to leave! The Romans are at our gates, even now they make their way up towards our palace to do us some horrible wrong!" Demetrius only stared, his face showing the shock I felt. So I retrieved his clothing for him, tugging a long tunic over his head and handing him his coat. He pulled it on with a sort of slow disbelief. "Fool! Hurry thee, or we may be yet murdered at the hands of barbarians!" I shoved him towards the door. The push seemed to jar some sense back into his brain, and he took off at a run. "We go to the gate!" I called after him. He would know the gate of which I spoke, for we oft used it ourselves when we were wont to sneak away from the bustle of the castle. I took my own way there, racing along the back streets. Alarbus, I knew, would already be with them, Tamora and surely Aaron, her beloved Moor. Indeed, there they stood at the gate, golden metal suits disguised by the ragged fur coats that they wore. Demetrius emerged behind me, and Tamora flipped the lock on the gate. Out we slunk, like to some wolves on the tail of an unsuspecting doe. But our brilliant escape had been anticipated, it seemed, for we had but reached a patch of woodland when we were intercepted. It was then that I first looked upon the face of the usurper of our woes, that most noble Titus of the house of Andronicus. His stern face gazed with a civilized sort of hatred down at me, the most intelligent and calculating stare I had ever had the misfortune of being exposed to. His soldiers forced us to our knees. And then Titus spoke, his voice rough and gravely, as though worn down by the countless miles he had undoubtedly traveled. "Pray, what have we here? Traitorous Goths, betraying the city that was thine own? Truly, this cannot be Tamora and her whelps, the proud Queen? Nay, nay. Surely not." Alarbus spoke, his tongue quickened with fury. "'Tis Tamora, proudest and greatest Queen of Goths!" Tamora kicked him. "Fool! Thou hast forsaken us!" Titus smiled. He motioned for his soldiers to shackle us. The metal rings were infinitely cool against my flesh and I gasped, only to be struck across the face by the metal glove of a cold-faced captain. I spat at his feet, my saliva pink with blood. The man brought his face closer, his breath reeking of drink and meat. "Listen, wench, and listen well. I will take none of thy cheek. Dost thou but attempt to dishonor me again." He did not need to elaborate. I understood well enough. I was silent and respectful to my captors from then on. They had us strung up in a prisoner's wagon, like beasts in a cage. Aaron, however, was made to walk behind, the lash of a soldier descending on him if he did tarry. Our arms grew tired, the shoulders swollen from bearing our weight for so long. I felt as though mine would break. Demetrius had his head down and was weeping, the ashamed angel, short-cropped blonde hair framing his face. My own long locks, greasy from the dirt and dust of travel, clung to my face as a cold rain fell. Scythia, our beloved city, eventually faded from sight across the flat plains, and our stomachs protested our meager rations, and we would oft pass out from thrist and weariness. Throughout Alarbus struggled, tugging ineffectually at his chains and growling in a primal way, his emissions sometimes punctuated by curses or screams of frustration. Tamora, our dearest mother, would try to comfort him, but she could do no more than speak to him soothingly, sing to him. But to no avail. It was in the third week that we reached Rome. 


	2. Hounds of Rome

2. The Hounds of Rome  
  
Rome was not at all as I had expected it to be. I had always pictured it as a barbaric place of brothels and slave courts, a rotting stinking city of scum. But rather, it was a wondrous palace of learning and advancement, much more beautiful than our Scythia, which I admit with some regret. However, there was some difference. Scythia's gates had always been thrown open in welcome to us. Rome's gates, those cold metal barriers, seemed the looming, staring specters of our fate. We had been told by one of the guards that we were to be sold into slavery, a fate worse than death for any proud Goth. Demetrius sobbed and whined as we were taken from our cart and marched up before the imperial palace of Rome. Two men were campaigning there, making speeches to multitudes of people gathered there. Though they spoke in Latin, I understood them well. It had been one of my best subjects. Demetrius' as well, which was surprising. He had never been much good at academics. I listened with interest as one stepped up to his microphone. This man was tall and dark, and he spoke with a certain anger and emotion. He said, "Noble patricians, patrons of my right, defend the justice of my cause with arms; and, countrymen, my loving followers, plead my successive title with your swords. I am his first born son that was the last that ware the imperial diadem of Rome; then let my father's honours live in me, nor wrong mine age with this indignity." He had a certain way with words, I suppose, that inspired something in me. His name, I learned from the fervent shouting of the crowd, was Saturninus, and he was the eldest son of the late Caesar. His brother stepped forward. Bassianus was his name, and his manner was gentler, more refined. Calmer. He said, "Romans, friends, followers, favourers of my right, if ever Bassianus, Caesar's son, were gracious in the eyes of royal Rome, keep then this passage to the Capitol; and suffer not dishonour to approach the imperial seat, to virtue consecrate, to justice, continence, and nobility; but let desert in pure election shine; and, Romans, fight for freedom in your choice." I must admit, had I right to vote, I would have chosen this man. He would make a better leader, keep his head in trouble. He would live longer, as well, being less excitable. But there was something I disliked about this man that quickly changed my tune. You see, Titus had but one daughter. Lavinia. And she was the most beautiful creature I had ever seen, dainty and refined, much like a lovely doe. Her eyes were dark and calm, her skin fair, her cascading tresses dark and thick. She was thin, shapely, tall. And I found myself falling in love with her then, madly so. I would have given anything for her to be mine. But she had been snatched by another. Bassianus, younger son to the Caesar. I chanced a look at Demetrius. It seemed that he was smitten with her as well, staring openly. I elbowed him and whispered in his ear, "Thou wouldst not have thy eyes burned out, fool brother. Avert thy gaze." He obeyed, face taking on a pinkish tinge. I returned my attentions to the debate. A third party had appeared, an older man wearing the robes of a Tribune and a face much like that of Titus. Marcus Andronicus, I was to learn. "Princes, that strive by factions and by friends ambitiously for rule and empery, know that the people of Rome, for whom we stand a special party, have by common voice in election for the Roman empery chosen Andronicus, surnamed Pius for many good and great deserts to Rome. A nobler man, a braver warrior, lives not this day within the city walls. He by the Senate is accited home, from weary wars against the barbarous Goths, that with his sons, a terror to our foes, hath yok'd a nation strong, train'd up in arms. Ten years are spent since first he undertook this cause of Rome, and chastised with arms our enemies' pride; five times he hath return'd bleeding to Rome, bearing his valiant sons in coffins from the field; and at this day to the monument of that Andronici done sacrifice of expiation, and slain the noblest prisoner of the Goths. And now at last, laden with honour's spoils, returns the good Andronicus to Rome, renowned Titus, flourishing in arms. Let us entreat, by honour of his name whom worthily you would have now succeed, and in the Capitol and Senate's right, whom you pretend to honour and adore, that you withdraw you and abate your strength, dismiss your followers, and, as suitors should, lead your deserts in peace and humbleness." I gazed confusedly about. Slain the noblest prisoner of the Goths? Whom? My question was soon to be answered. Marcus had gotten a bit ahead of the time, but only slightly. We were dragged off then, towards a tomb at the far end of the square. A sign in Roman letters above read 'Andronici'. A sense of foreboding seized me as we approached that tomb, and I smelled death on the air. 


End file.
